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"Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland"

Part Four

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

by Lewis Carroll

Original 42 Illustrations by John Tenniel Colorized

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Part Four

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The Lobster Quadrille
CHAPTER X

    The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. “Same as if he had a bone in his throat,” said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:—

    “You may not have lived much under the sea—” (“I haven’t,” said Alice)—“and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster—” (Alice began to say “I once tasted—” but checked herself hastily, and said “No, never”) “—so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!”

    “No, indeed,” said Alice. “What sort of a dance is it?”

    “Why,” said the Gryphon, “you first form into a line along the sea-shore—”

    “Two lines!” cried the Mock Turtle. “Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you’ve cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way—”

    “That generally takes some time,” interrupted the Gryphon.

    “—you advance twice—”

    “Each with a lobster as a partner!” cried the Gryphon.

    “Of course,” the Mock Turtle said: “advance twice, set to partners—”

    “—change lobsters, and retire in same order,” continued the Gryphon.

    “Then, you know,” the Mock Turtle went on, “you throw the—”

    “The lobsters!” shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air.

    “—as far out to sea as you can—”

    “Swim after them!” screamed the Gryphon.

    “Turn a somersault in the sea!” cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about.

    “Change lobsters again!” yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.

    “Back to land again, and that’s all the first figure,” said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice.

    “It must be a very pretty dance,” said Alice timidly.

    “Would you like to see a little of it?” said the Mock Turtle.

    “Very much indeed,” said Alice.

    “Come, let’s try the first figure!” said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. “We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?”

    “Oh, you sing,” said the Gryphon. “I’ve forgotten the words.”

    So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:—







    “Thank you, it’s a very interesting dance to watch,” said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: “and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!”

    “Oh, as to the whiting,” said the Mock Turtle, “they—you’ve seen them, of course?”

    “Yes,” said Alice, “I’ve often seen them at dinn—” she checked herself hastily.

    “I don’t know where Dinn may be,” said the Mock Turtle, “but if you’ve seen them so often, of course you know what they’re like.”

    “I believe so,” Alice replied thoughtfully. “They have their tails in their mouths—and they’re all over crumbs.”

    “You’re wrong about the crumbs,” said the Mock Turtle: “crumbs would all wash off in the sea. But they have their tails in their mouths; and the reason is—” here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.—“Tell her about the reason and all that,” he said to the Gryphon.

    “The reason is,” said the Gryphon, “that they would go with the lobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn’t get them out again. That’s all.”

    “Thank you,” said Alice, “it’s very interesting. I never knew so much about a whiting before.”

    “I can tell you more than that, if you like,” said the Gryphon. “Do you know why it’s called a whiting?”

    “I never thought about it,” said Alice. “Why?”

    “It does the boots and shoes,” the Gryphon replied very solemnly.

    Alice was thoroughly puzzled. “Does the boots and shoes!” she repeated in a wondering tone

    “Why, what are your shoes done with?” said the Gryphon. “I mean, what makes them so shiny?”

    Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer. “They’re done with blacking, I believe.”

    “Boots and shoes under the sea,” the Gryphon went on in a deep voice, “are done with a whiting. Now you know.”

    “And what are they made of?” Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.

    “Soles and eels, of course,” the Gryphon replied rather impatiently: “any shrimp could have told you that.”

    “If I’d been the whiting,” said Alice, whose thoughts were still running on the song, “I’d have said to the porpoise, ‘Keep back, please: we don’t want you with us!’”

    “They were obliged to have him with them,” the Mock Turtle said: “no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.”

    “Wouldn’t it really?” said Alice in a tone of great surprise.

    “Of course not,” said the Mock Turtle: “why, if a fish came to me, and told me he was going a journey, I should say ‘With what porpoise?’”

    “Don’t you mean ‘purpose’?” said Alice.

    “I mean what I say,” the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And the Gryphon added “Come, let’s hear some of your adventures.”

    “I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,” said Alice a little timidly: “but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”

    “Explain all that,” said the Mock Turtle.

    “No, no! The adventures first,” said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: “explanations take such a dreadful time.”

    So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so very wide, but she gained courage as she went on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating “You are old, Father William,” to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said “That’s very curious.”

    “It’s all about as curious as it can be,” said the Gryphon.

    “It all came different!” the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. “I should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to begin.” He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice.

    “Stand up and repeat ‘’Tis the voice of the sluggard,’” said the Gryphon.

    “How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!” thought Alice; “I might as well be at school at once.” However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:—'

    “That’s different from what I used to say when I was a child,” said the Gryphon.

    “Well, I never heard it before,” said the Mock Turtle; “but it sounds uncommon nonsense.”

    Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would ever happen in a natural way again.

    “I should like to have it explained,” said the Mock Turtle.

    “She can’t explain it,” said the Gryphon hastily. “Go on with the next verse.”

    “But about his toes?” the Mock Turtle persisted. “How could he turn them out with his nose, you know?”

    “It’s the first position in dancing.” Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject.

    “Go on with the next verse,” the Gryphon repeated impatiently: “it begins ‘I passed by his garden.’”

    Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:—



    “What is the use of repeating all that stuff,” the Mock Turtle interrupted, “if you don’t explain it as you go on? It’s by far the most confusing thing I ever heard!”

    “Yes, I think you’d better leave off,” said the Gryphon: and Alice was only too glad to do so.

    “Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?” the Gryphon went on. “Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?”

    “Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,” Alice replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone, “Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her ‘Turtle Soup,’ will you, old fellow?”

    The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:—





    “Chorus again!” cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of “The trial’s beginning!” was heard in the distance.

    “Come on!” cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song.

    “What trial is it?” Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only answered “Come on!” and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:—

Who Stole the Tarts?
CHAPTER XI

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    The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them—all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them—“I wish they’d get the trial done,” she thought, “and hand round the refreshments!” But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time.

    Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew the name of nearly everything there. “That’s the judge,” she said to herself, “because of his great wig.”

    The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming.

    “And that’s the jury-box,” thought Alice, “and those twelve creatures,” (she was obliged to say “creatures,” you see, because some of them were animals, and some were birds,) “I suppose they are the jurors.” She said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. However, “jury-men” would have done just as well.

    The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. “What are they doing?” Alice whispered to the Gryphon. “They can’t have anything to put down yet, before the trial’s begun.”

    “They’re putting down their names,” the Gryphon whispered in reply, “for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.”

    “Stupid things!” Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, “Silence in the court!” and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking.

    Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down “stupid things!” on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn’t know how to spell “stupid,” and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. “A nice muddle their slates’ll be in before the trial’s over!” thought Alice.

    One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate.

    “Herald, read the accusation!” said the King.

    On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:—

    “Consider your verdict,” the King said to the jury.

    “Not yet, not yet!” the Rabbit hastily interrupted. “There’s a great deal to come before that!”

    “Call the first witness,” said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, “First witness!”

    The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. “I beg pardon, your Majesty,” he began, “for bringing these in: but I hadn’t quite finished my tea when I was sent for.”

    “You ought to have finished,” said the King. “When did you begin?”

    The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. “Fourteenth of March, I think it was,” he said.

    “Fifteenth,” said the March Hare.

    “Sixteenth,” added the Dormouse.

    “Write that down,” the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and reduced the answer to shillings and pence.

    “Take off your hat,” the King said to the Hatter.

    “It isn’t mine,” said the Hatter.

    “Stolen!” the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact. “I keep them to sell,” the Hatter added as an explanation; “I’ve none of my own. I’m a hatter.” Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted.

    “Give your evidence,” said the King; “and don’t be nervous, or I’ll have you executed on the spot.” This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter.

    Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as long as there was room for her.

    “I wish you wouldn’t squeeze so.” said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her. “I can hardly breathe.” “I can’t help it,” said Alice very meekly: “I’m growing.”

    “You’ve no right to grow here,” said the Dormouse.

    “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Alice more boldly: “you know you’re growing too.”

    “Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,” said the Dormouse: “not in that ridiculous fashion.” And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court.

    All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, “Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!” on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off.

    “Give your evidence,” the King repeated angrily, “or I’ll have you executed, whether you’re nervous or not.”

    “I’m a poor man, your Majesty,” the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, “—and I hadn’t begun my tea—not above a week or so—and what with the bread-and-butter getting so thin—and the twinkling of the tea—”

    “The twinkling of the what?” said the King.

    “It began with the tea,” the Hatter replied.

    “Of course twinkling begins with a T!” said the King sharply. “Do you take me for a dunce? Go on!”

    “I’m a poor man,” the Hatter went on, “and most things twinkled after that—only the March Hare said—”

    “I didn’t!” the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.

    “You did!” said the Hatter.

    “I deny it!” said the March Hare.

    “He denies it,” said the King: “leave out that part.”

    “Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said—” the Hatter went on, looking anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied nothing, being fast asleep.

    “After that,” continued the Hatter, “I cut some more bread-and-butter—”

    “But what did the Dormouse say?” one of the jury asked.

    “That I can’t remember,” said the Hatter.

    “You must remember,” remarked the King, “or I’ll have you executed.” The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went down on one knee. “I’m a poor man, your Majesty,” he began.

    “You’re a very poor speaker,” said the King.

    Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat upon it.)

    “I’m glad I’ve seen that done,” thought Alice. “I’ve so often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials, “There was some attempts at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court,” and I never understood what it meant till now.”

    “If that’s all you know about it, you may stand down,” continued the King.

    “I can’t go no lower,” said the Hatter: “I’m on the floor, as it is.”

    “Then you may sit down,” the King replied.

    Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed.

    “Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!” thought Alice. “Now we shall get on better.”

    “I’d rather finish my tea,” said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the Queen, who was reading the list of singers.

    “You may go,” said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court, without even waiting to put his shoes on.

    “—and just take his head off outside,” the Queen added to one of the officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get to the door.

    “Call the next witness!” said the King.

    The next witness was the Duchess’s cook. She carried the pepper-box in her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once.

    “Give your evidence,” said the King.

    “Shan’t,” said the cook.

    The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice, “Your Majesty must cross-examine this witness.”

    “Well, if I must, I must,” the King said, with a melancholy air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, “What are tarts made of?”

    “Pepper, mostly,” said the cook.

    “Treacle,” said a sleepy voice behind her.

    “Collar that Dormouse,” the Queen shrieked out. “Behead that Dormouse! Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his whiskers!”

    For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had disappeared.

    “Never mind!” said the King, with an air of great relief. “Call the next witness.” And he added in an undertone to the Queen, “Really, my dear, you must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!”

    Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, “—for they haven’t got much evidence yet,” she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name “Alice!”

Alice’s Evidence
CHAPTER XII

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    “Here!” cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt, upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish she had accidentally upset the week before.

    “Oh, I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or they would die.

    “The trial cannot proceed,” said the King in a very grave voice, “until all the jurymen are back in their proper places—all,” he repeated with great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so.

    Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got it out again, and put it right; “not that it signifies much,” she said to herself; “I should think it would be quite as much use in the trial one way up as the other.”

    As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the court.

    “What do you know about this business?” the King said to Alice.

    “Nothing,” said Alice.

    “Nothing whatever?” persisted the King.

    “Nothing whatever,” said Alice.

    “That’s very important,” the King said, turning to the jury. They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted: “Unimportant, your Majesty means, of course,” he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

    “Unimportant, of course, I meant,” the King hastily said, and went on to himself in an undertone, “important—unimportant—unimportant—important—” as if he were trying which word sounded best.

    Some of the jury wrote it down “important,” and some “unimportant.” Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates; “but it doesn’t matter a bit,” she thought to herself.

    At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out “Silence!” and read out from his book, “Rule Forty-two. All persons more than a mile high to leave the court.”

    Everybody looked at Alice.

    “I’m not a mile high,” said Alice.

    “You are,” said the King.

    “Nearly two miles high,” added the Queen.

    “Well, I shan’t go, at any rate,” said Alice: “besides, that’s not a regular rule: you invented it just now.”

    “It’s the oldest rule in the book,” said the King.

    “Then it ought to be Number One,” said Alice.

    The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. “Consider your verdict,” he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

    “There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,” said the White Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; “this paper has just been picked up.”

    “What’s in it?” said the Queen.

    “I haven’t opened it yet,” said the White Rabbit, “but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to—to somebody.”

    “It must have been that,” said the King, “unless it was written to nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.”

    “Who is it directed to?” said one of the jurymen.

    “It isn’t directed at all,” said the White Rabbit; “in fact, there’s nothing written on the outside.” He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added “It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of verses.”

    “Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?” asked another of the jurymen.

    “No, they’re not,” said the White Rabbit, “and that’s the queerest thing about it.” (The jury all looked puzzled.)

    “He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,” said the King. (The jury all brightened up again.)

    “Please your Majesty,” said the Knave, “I didn’t write it, and they can’t prove I did: there’s no name signed at the end.” “If you didn’t sign it,” said the King, “that only makes the matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else you’d have signed your name like an honest man.”

    There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.

    “That proves his guilt,” said the Queen.

    “It proves nothing of the sort!” said Alice. “Why, you don’t even know what they’re about!”

    “Read them,” said the King.

    The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. “Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?” he asked.

    “Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

    These were the verses the White Rabbit read:—

    “That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,” said the King, rubbing his hands; “so now let the jury—”

    “If any one of them can explain it,” said Alice, (she had grown so large in the last few minutes that she wasn’t a bit afraid of interrupting him,) “I’ll give him sixpence. I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.”

    The jury all wrote down on their slates, “She doesn’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it,” but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

    “If there’s no meaning in it,” said the King, “that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any. And yet I don’t know,” he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye; “I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. “—said I could not swim—” you can’t swim, can you?” he added, turning to the Knave.

    The Knave shook his head sadly. “Do I look like it?” he said. (Which he certainly did not, being made entirely of cardboard.) “All right, so far,” said the King, and he went on muttering over the verses to himself: “‘We know it to be true—’ that’s the jury, of course—‘I gave her one, they gave him two—’ why, that must be what he did with the tarts, you know—”

    “But, it goes on ‘they all returned from him to you,’” said Alice.

    “Why, there they are!” said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table. “Nothing can be clearer than that. Then again—‘before she had this fit—’ you never had fits, my dear, I think?” he said to the Queen.

    “Never!” said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as it lasted.)

    “Then the words don’t fit you,” said the King, looking round the court with a smile. There was a dead silence.

    “It’s a pun!” the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed, “Let the jury consider their verdict,” the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.

    “No, no!” said the Queen. “Sentence first—verdict afterwards.”

    “Stuff and nonsense!” said Alice loudly. “The idea of having the sentence first!”

    “Hold your tongue!” said the Queen, turning purple.

    “I won’t!” said Alice.

    “Off with her head!” the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody moved.

    “Who cares for you?” said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.) “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!”

    At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

    “Wake up, Alice dear!” said her sister; “Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!”

    “Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had finished, her sister kissed her, and said, “It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.” So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.

    But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:—

    First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers—she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes—and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream.

    The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by—the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool—she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution—once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it—once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock Turtle.

    So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality—the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds—the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy—and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard—while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.

    Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

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Through the looking glass (Published 1871), by Lewis Carroll, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, (1832 - 1898)

The illustrations are by by John Tenniel (1820-1914) Published 1871)